


I can only remember you(r address)

by Hepzheba



Series: Tumblr ficlets [30]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Drunk Stiles, Fluff, Humor, M/M, POV Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-25
Updated: 2015-02-25
Packaged: 2018-03-15 05:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3435299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hepzheba/pseuds/Hepzheba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Stiles only remembers his old address, which happens to be the apartment Derek lives in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can only remember you(r address)

**Author's Note:**

> For raisesomehale because of a post with a postcard that says “Hey! I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know.” and the tags #HI HELLO PPL OF MY DASHBOARD PLS WRITE ME THIS STEREK FIC.   
> I couldn’t help myself.  
> Rated for drunk Stiles.  
> Not beta'd and I'm too overactive because of side effects from my new meds to read it through myself, please point out any mistakes and I'll fix them.

It’s weird, but also slightly funny. Derek can’t help but smile as he reads the backside of the postcard again.

_Hey! I used to live in your apartment. I’m drunk in Boston and it’s the only address I know. Happy holidays. SS_

Derek doesn’t get many postcards so he sticks it to the fridge and smiles every time he sees the card in the next few weeks. He can’t help but wonder who SS is. He doesn’t remember the previous tenant, doesn’t think they ever met.

As the months pass he gets used to the card and doesn’t look at it twice anymore.

 

It’s a Friday night and Derek should be asleep, that’s how late it is. Instead he’s watching a bad action movie, one of those that actually make him laugh out loud because of how bad it is. Things explode left, right and center for almost no reason (someone lights a cigarette close to a car – boom! the car flies in the air).

The bell suddenly rings and Derek frowns, wondering for a moment if he’s lost his mind, but then it rings again. It doesn’t stop this time though. It seems as if someone’s pressing it in. Derek wonders if it’s robbers, it could be. Unless there’s three of them or more – or if they have guns – he’d probably manage to take them down though. So it’s better that he opens than that they walk up to the second floor to Greenberg; he wouldn’t be able to take them even if he tried – man is only skin and bones. It’s not robbers outside. It’s a guy standing with his forehead to the wall next to Derek’s door, eyes closed and finger pressed to the doorbell.

“Can I help you?” Derek asks and the man startles awake. His eyes are huge and brown and unfocused.

“I’m really drunk,” he says, needlessly – Derek hasn’t had alcohol in a while; he might actually be able to get drunk from the fumes from the man – and sways on the spot. Derek reaches out and holds his arm when the man almost topples over.

“I’m really drunk,” the man repeats, “And I used to live here and it was the only address I could remember. So I thought maybe I could crash on your couch?”

Derek recognizes the words vaguely and then it clicks. SS.

“What’s your name?” he asks, because he’s been wondering for so long.

“Stiles. Schtiles Stilinshki.”

Stiles. It’s an unusual name. On a rather unusual person.

“I’m Derek. Come on in.”

“Thanks, man, I love you. Like, seriously…”

The man – Stiles – walks right by the couch and for the bedroom. Derek follows him, frowning, and his eyes widen as Stiles face plants onto the bed. After he’s stared at Stiles for a few moments he steps inside and shakes the man’s shoulder, but no matter how hard he shakes, the guy won’t wake up. He’s snoring though, so he’s not dead.

Derek considers throwing him out. Or carrying him to the couch. He should.

Stiles has a pretty, upturned nose, brown, messy hair, and such dark, long eyelashes. There’s also a splatter of moles on his cheek. Stiles makes a noise and burrows further into the pillow. _Derek’s_ pillow. He really should throw the guy out.

He takes off Stiles’ shoes and pulls a blanket over him before heading back to the couch to sleep there.

He’s up quite early the next morning, he knocks the door softly before stepping inside his bedroom. Stiles is on his back, his shirt has rode up and shows off a pale, flat stomach and a dark trail of hair leading down into his jeans. He’s fast asleep. Derek puts a glass of water and some aspirin on the bedside table before he makes breakfast for himself. He considers making pancakes for Stiles but that would probably be weird. He considers calling his sister Laura to ask what he should do but she’d probably come over, so that’s a big no-no then. He eats his breakfast, does his morning yoga, but doesn’t dare go out running, he doesn’t want to leave Stiles alone, because he doesn’t want his TV gone; it’s not because he doesn’t want Stiles to leave before Derek can find out if he’s single and interested in men. That’s totally not the reason.

 Stiles emerges sometime closer to afternoon. His clothes and hair are a mess and he’s got dark circles around his eyes and unlike last night’s flushed cheeks, he’s now sickly pale. He’s still quite gorgeous though.

“Do you want breakfast?” Derek asks, “or dinner.”

He wasn’t supposed to say that. Stiles smiles at him though.

“Oh, man, you’re the best, where have you been my whole life?”

Derek doesn’t know what to say so he walks into the kitchen to fetch some menus for Stiles to pick from. When he turns around, Stiles is holding a postcard in his hand. _The_ postcard. The postcard from Stiles. That Derek’s saved for almost six months.

“Dude,” Stiles breathes and stares at Derek.

“I don’t get postcards that often,” Derek says and it sounds like a lie, even if it’s not.

Stiles’ lips twitches.

“I can send you postcards,” he says and looks up at Derek from under his lashes. Derek wants to kiss him and do other, unmentionable things to him.

“I- Yeah, that’d be… actually, no, I don’t want you to just send me postcards,” Derek says and Stiles looks slightly hurt. “I- Maybe we could- you’re probably straight and not single and-”

Suddenly Stiles’ whole face lights up and he smiles at Derek.

“I’m single, bisexual and not opposed to dating the guy who let me sleep in his bed when I couldn’t remember my own address.”

Derek smiles too.

They don’t order pizzas until two hours later, but Derek finds that Stiles’ whole body flushes rather prettily and he makes the most amazing sounds. It’s much more important that pizza.

A few weeks later Derek lets have the postcard frame and puts it over his bed.


End file.
